Seven Nation Army
by thegirlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: Arya has returned to Westeros, aiming to take back Winterfell in the name of House Stark, but leaving Braavos and the House of Black and White has not proven easy. Meanwhile, the Iron Bank is looking for a candidate to place upon the throne.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

"Whaddaya think a maid like 'er would go fer?" Sandor listened halfheartedly to a conversation being held a table over. The band of sailors were huddled around their table, all glossy eyed after drinking their fill of wine. "A pretty little beau'y, little gown 'n all. . . bet she's still innocent, whaddaya bet?" A young bawdy, pox-marked fellow slurred. His companions snickered.

"Like she'd even look at yer, ya stank like a pig and look worse than my mum." All but the young fellow laughed.

"Ya never even seen 'er, ya miserable cunt. She's locked up in tha Eyrie. No one ever seen 'er," an older lad quibbled, scratching his cheek.

"Ya, that stiff- what he called, Hugh?-Baelish? 'E keeps 'er up in the Vale all secret like," the men sipped on their mugs. "Wonder if the little beau'y ever split 'er legs fer 'im, eh?" They all wheezed on their laughter, cackling lewd comments under their breath. Sandor curled his fingers tightly around his stew spoon. The meal had cooled long ago, but Sandor found his appetite was lost. Fingers fiddling with the edges of his cloak, he pulled the hood tighter to his face. His hair had grown out long enough to partially conceal the hideous scars on the left side of his face, but still, he was weary of anyone noticing the terrible afflictions. Even after the few years he'd spent at the Quiet Isle abandoning his past, the Hound lived on, haunting Sandor. Stories of the bloody Lannister dog ravaging the Saltpans were never far from his ears. That was part of the reason he had traveled to Gulltown, he needed to get away from the tales. Down the river and resting on the Bay of Crabs, Gulltown was a large port city, full of new gossip and rumors. Most of the news was rubbish, but every once in awhile Sandor found something of importance.

Apparently Sansa Stark had survived Kingslanding after all, escaping Joff's bloody wedding and fleeing to the Vale. Littlefinger was of course responsible, Sandor wasn't surprised to discover. The little bird had used her wings, fluttering right into another cage, but this cage was much worse. Littlefucker knew the game all too well, thought Sandor. He's going to want something from her. . . . It made Sandor sick to think of what that might be, the plans he was constructing, what he had already done to her.

The previous Master of Coin had a well known affection for Tully maids, notorious for taking both Lord Hoster Tully's daughters to bed, snatching their precious maidenheads. Or so he claimed. The eldest of Lord Hoster's girls, Lady Catelyn, was said to have a daughter that was even lovelier than her, or so they all said. Sandor didn't doubt that the little bird had grown and her beauty with her. He remembered her well. Tiny little child and prettier than most of the ladies at court, perhaps the Lannister lioness herself, with auburn hair that glowed like licks of flame, burning against her pale skin. Such a stupid girl. But then again, she'd grown up with Lord Eddard Stark for her father, the noblest bloody man in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stark had come to Kingslanding with his honor sewn onto his sleeve, meddling in the lions' den. He hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut, overpowered by his precious honor, and yet he died for it. Killed by a boy king.

Lady Sansa Stark. . . last remaining heir to Winterfell. _She outlived them all_, Sandor pondered with regard. The sailors gave another bout of boisterous laughter and a growl bloomed deep in Sandor's throat. _But can she survive Petyr Baelish and his game?_

Sandor was about to summon for the tavern wench when screams sounded from outside. Men immediately drew their swords, the scraping of chairs definite as the chatter died down. The screams sounded again, followed by shouts and then footsteps.

The Hound had fought in many battles, led countless attacks, he knew the sounds of war as well as he knew himself. His lips pulled back to form a snarl and for the first time since leaving the Quiet Isle Sandor felt awake. He breathed in deep, nostrils flaring like a mad horse, blood hammering in his head.

The men rushed through the door out into the dark harbor streets, the stench of the sea overpowering their senses. Laughter twisted its way through the road, echoing through the fog. How many men were there? A hundred? A thousand? Sandor couldn't tell, but he knew they were close. Ripping the heavy hood from his head, he unsheathed his great sword. Not one man payed any mind to his scars, as he'd feared they might, but instead their attention was fixed on the strange cries. They were odd noises, battle cries of another kind, guttural shrieks.

The mob of men appeared around the street's crooked bend. Summer Isle men, was Sandor's first impression. Great black beasts, built like oxen, muscle corded thickly across their chests. Every other man towered over the cravens from the tavern. The only one that could compare in size was Sandor.

They carried torches, fire devouring the darkness, birthing shadows against the mud beneath their feet. The glow was bright enough to reveal their half naked bodies, which glistened with paint, the colors blazing upon their dark skin. The markings ran along their faces and arms, shoulders and chests, flowing in reds and oranges, spiraling with yellows. It was unsettling. They spoke in strange tongues. Their voices were deep and harsh. Their words, vibrant and savage, bounded loudly against the port's alleys and buildings.

A man in front gave a wild, unrestrained scream. The others stopped their march, turning their heads.

The men from the tavern had all drawn weapons, but stood on the street, struck silent. Light poured from the open door and illuminated the flakes of snow that swirled in the sea breeze. No one dared move. Sandor could almost hear the breath spilling from open mouths, and watched as wisps of mist drifted from the sailors' quivering lips.

A whimpering cry came from the horde of black brutes. The men parted. From the gash in the crowd came two men, each bound and gagged mercilessly. Blood poured freely from a slice on one lad's cheek, staining his ratty tunic. The other man looked worse. Each had vicious bruising, the most visible ones on their faces. Their features were swollen so terribly, their eyes had nearly shut, cheeks puffed up a yellow hue. The one man's armor glimmered in the firelight, but Sandor couldn't catch the sigil on his breastplate.

"Oh, please, no. No more, we beg you," the younger lad groaned through the cloth that choked him. His reply was a kick to the back, sending him sprawling into the mud. The other man kneeled willingly and spoke not a word.

So quick was he, Sandor barely caught sight of the stranger as he descended from the roofs above. He landed soft and silent, like a cat, rolling to his feet gracefully. His boots made not a sound as he stalked to meet the cowering men. He carried no sword upon his back, only a plain black cloak that fluttered in the breeze. The hood covered his face in shadow, making the only sign of life a thin stream of mist seeping from the stranger's mouth.

The army of Summer Isle men watched the stranger with rapture. He was obviously in command.

"Who do you pay allegiance to?" The man asked in a thickly accented voice. _Braavosi._ The boy shivered, whimpering. The other man gave no reply. The stranger asked once more. No answer. "Lions of Lannister, perhaps?" The boy began to sob, his cries echoing through the street. The tavern men waited, watching, more people had gathered to observe. "Lions have no place this far North," the stranger tilted his head to one side, crouching to eye level with the three prisoners as if mocking them.

"The Lannisters sit the Iron Throne, they rule the Seven Kingdoms," the man grunted. "Piss on your North!"

"Times have changed. The Lannisters are finished. Winter has come and the summer sun has set on their house."

"Please," the boy moaned. "Please, just let us go. . . please!"

"A man cannot do this," the stranger said in his silky voice. Each word dripped with leisure, as if the prisoners before him left the stranger completely unaffected. "A man owes a favor," the stranger stood, removing his hood, his mouth and nose were covered in black cloth. His hair fell forward and swept along his jawline-red and tousled. A bitter color, Sandor thought. _Like dried blood_. "Swear fealty, abandon your house, then perhaps you may live." The boy moaned into his rag, shoulders shaking violently.

"Swear fealty to whom, you filthy scum? There's only one throne," the man growled.

"Swear to the North, that is all that is asked."

"I'll not be swearing to some Braavosi fish monger," the man spat.

The stranger chuckled. "A man owes a favor, no more. It is not I you will pledge to."

"Then who bloody else?"

"She has many names. Faces, too. Some call her the she-wolf, but my people call her No One."

"I'll not swear to a nameless bitch-" the man stopped short, the words stuck in his throat along with an eight inch dagger. The attack had been so swift, some people watching hadn't noticed what had occurred. Sandor's grip tightened on his sword's hilt. Blood weeped down the man's neck, leaking along the dents in his breastplate. He gurgled, spurting blood from his mouth, eyes wide. The stranger wiped the blade on his cloak after sliding it from the man's neck. The man fell forward into the mud, blood steaming in the snow. The stranger grabbed the boy, now screaming with abandon, head rolling in fear. The stranger lifted the lad up by his tunic with a ferocious strength that shocked Sandor.

"No, no, don't kill me! I swear! I'll pledge, I promise, please," he cried.

"This man has a message in need of deliverance."

"Yes, yes, I'll take it! I'll do anything, just please let me me go!" The boy dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. "What is the message, m'lord?" Sandor held his breath.

"Find your masters, boy. Find them and tell them Arya Stark lives, that she has the prince and will take the North in the name of House Stark, the blood of Winterfell."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Six guards, three at each side of the first gate's entrance,_ Gezarhi calculated. Their garb was simple: light robes to deflect the Dornish heat, spears and whips to beat away unruly filth such as herself. They guarded the first of three gates into Sunspear. The walls curled around the city in three winding layers, making it tremendously hard to get inside successfully. The Threefold Gate kept out vermin of the slums, inhabitants of the hovels surrounding the gate's entrance. The Martells were adamant about maintaining a clean, reputable city; they had no desire for the undesirables outside their precious city walls. Alleyways and bazaars spawned from the Old Palace, a crowded infestation of winesinks, pillow houses, inns, and hidden courts. Entering the city was going to be tricky, getting out might even prove a challenge.

Gezarhi was crouched behind a pile of broken carts, abandoned on the fringes of a local bazaar. The first gate loomed overhead, rising into the sky, seemingly as if to touch the sun. Wiping her bloodied lips against a stained ragged tunic, the young girl, festering like a tender fruit in the ripe Dornish sun, stood. Gathering a handful of dirt in between her callused fingers, Gezarhi smeared it across her cheeks and rumpled her sweat soaked hair. Looking every bit like an urchin child playing in the muck, she ran into the bazaar, shouting and screaming along with the other soiled children.

Carts were piled high with lush citrus, hundreds of spices were sold by the stone, exotic trinkets hung from doorways, whores performed for coin, and serpents danced inside woven baskets. The people were in constant buzz, their pouches clanking with goods, many layers of cloth whispering against their sweaty skin as they called to sellers.

Stopping before a fruit stand visible from the First Gate, Gezarhi's mouth began to salivate, her dried tongue slithering along her cracked lips. The keeper cursed at her, batting her away with a crop. The leather sung her skin, and she whimpered. "I'm so hungry!"

"You little rats, plundering my goods!" He cursed, slicing the air with his crop. "The next time one of you shits steals something from me again, I'll have the guards take a hand!" Yelping as the leather cracked across her cheek, Gezarhi stumbled to the ground. Clutching her burning skin, she twisted her face to keep from crying. "Guards! Guards! Seize this filth! Take her from my sight!" Two of the guards broke from their post at the gate, stalking through the crowded marketplace. Measuring her breath, Gezarhi scuttled forward, inching closer to the precious fruit stand. Gezarhi's hand hesitated a moment, waiting for the shop keep to see her crime before snatching away a melon. The keeper lunged with his crop, shouting. Cradling the tender melon to her chest, Gezarhi darted through the throng of market customers, bare feet blistering against the hot sand. Screaming for the guards, the keeper's voice carried through the bazaar. Darting between a packing mule's legs, the girl looked behind her. The two guards were following her, shoving people aside to reach her.

Breathing hard and panicked, Gezarhi scampered through a fire breather's show, scattering the goblet of change at his feet. One woman tried to grab her tunic, hissing. Feet sliding against the sand, Gezarhi raced down a narrow alleyway. She could hear the guards yelling at her. Scaling the two adjacent buildings, she scampered up the walls, clutching tightly to her melon, her toes finding outcroppings of stone to cling to. The guards shouted to their companions, and two more men broke from the gate's entrance to assist in her capture. The buildings were compact and easy to run along, the guards below matching her pace along the market street.

Brandishing their whips, the tongues of black leather flickered against the buildings' edges in hopes of catching Gezarhi's ankles. Waiting for the right moment to hop from a building top to a lower hovel, the guards racing to keep beside her, Gezarhi looked down, noticing a spice dealer's stand. It had a large overhang to shield its customers from the violent sun. The fabric could hold me, Gezarhi thought with avid observation. The wooden posts appeared to be strong enough and she was small, she'd always been small. . . .

The guards shouted, swearing at her, whips clawing at the air. Dust burst from her toes and her heart stammered.

Gezarhi looked to the overhang, then at the whips lashing against the sky, and leapt from the building.

The rooftops abandoned her and she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Her wrist burned, the flesh of her skin searing as the black tongue coiled itself around her arm. Her body was yanked, another whip snaking around her ankle. The breath stuttered in Gezarhi's throat and she rasped for air. The overhang screamed in protest as her weight burdened the wooden posts. The guards shouted. Her body was in the air once more. Falling.

The melon burst against the ground, rhine shattering, juice creating mud in the dust. Seeds sprinkled wetly across Gezarhi's cheek and the tail of a whip tightened against her throat. Sticky blood leaked from her neck, mingling with the melon's slimy innards. Her skin shimmered in the sun, heat wafting along ground, blood soaking into the parched sand. Everything burned. The pain was great, but Gezarhi found she could not cry, the tears wouldn't come. Her chest convulsed, feeling at if it were about to collapse.

"What's your name, girl?" One of the guards tightened the whip around her wrist and watched as she flinched.

"Please, no."

"What is your name?" He demanded.

The dried skin of her lips split and she could taste blood.

The guard kicked her in the side.

"_No one. _Please. I am no one."

* * *

The stag lay lifeless in the snow. The pack had chased it for over an hour, driving it to their den. The massive one, the female that lead them, jumped the great beast, the force of her attack dragging them both to the ground. Her claw marks cut deep into the flesh, ripping down to the bone. Hot blood leaked lethargically from its wounds, steaming in the cold. The stag had cried, tried to stand, kicking its hooves madly. The female's iron jaws sunk into the creature's throat, silencing it.

_ Grunt. Snap. _

Blood soaked her muzzle, dripping from her lips, staining the snow bright red. A snarl tore through her throat, vibrating, warning. The other slunk back from the kill, heads bent in submission. Snow drifted from the branches, swirling in and out of the light filtering through the canopy of trees overhead. Blood pooled in the snow, dripping, blooming around the carcass.

_Scream. Slither. Grunt. Snap._

Only once the female had finished, licking her muzzle in contentment, did the others creep forward cautiously. Their snarls shattered the quiet, vibrant and savage, echoing loudly against the silent forest coated in frost. Ice clung from branches and the cold fed from each breath the she-wolf expelled, clouds of mist bursting from her mouth.

_Snap. Scream. Slither._

* * *

Blood converged in the dust, the once minuscule puddle now a large mass of congealing red. The wetness ran between Gezarhi's legs, oozing between her thighs in rivulets, staining the rope that bound her ankles a murky brown before wandering the crevasses of her toes, dripping from her limp feet into the pool beneath her.

The flesh of her back weeped scarlet, drops running patterns down her body, branching along her skin like roots descending into the earth. The gaoler had stripped her body of attire, leaving her devoid of any material solace, exposing her bare silhouette in the sun. He had then tied her, the rope that bound her wrists fixed to the ceiling from two pulleys fastened to the walls of the cell. The bones of her wrists burned from the strain of her weight, chunks of flesh peeling off in flakes around the rope, raw and inflamed.

Her head slumped forward to her chest in exhaustion. Thirty lashes she had endured, the snap of the whip echoing through her ears like a sentence, the grunt of the gaoler wielding her punishment had become a curse, the wet whip slithering across the floor a condemning. Screaming had taken most of her energy, dragging her into an unconscious state of mind.

_The wolves came again_, she thought with something close to satisfaction. They had not visited her in many moons, she had been afraid they had left her for good. As hard as she tried, Gezarhi couldn't prevent herself from entering the parallel state. She knew it was dangerous, letting her past memories breathe life into the dead girl she once knew, but she found comfort in the pack, a place to exist without constant discretion.

"Lovely girl," a voice whispered. Gezarhi's eyes felt incredibly heavy as they cracked open. The Braavosi accent made his words all the more infuriating. She knew exactly what she was doing, she didn't need him patronizing her. She could manage on her own, she had no need of him.

He swept the fringes of the cell, avoiding the light pouring from the cell windows, keeping himself doused in the shadows. Pressing her dry lips together, Gerzarhi maintained a balanced expression.

"A girl looks terrible. She is making a man wonder if leaping from rooftops is the most wise action a girl could have taken. . .?"

She stayed silent. He was trying to provoke her as he had done countless times before, he enjoyed seeing her anger burst through the composure she tired so hard to keep in place. She would not let him get under her skin. She would not let him shatter this mask she had constructed so meticulously. Gezarhi was hers to control, craft, bend-not his. It had taken her nearly a year to earn a face this challenging to mold, an identity to practice with, to call her own. The nameless, conceited wretch would not take that from her. This was her assignment, and by the god, she would go through with it.

Biting her lip, she procured her expression to a masquerade of shame, tricked her cheeks to flush. Like a mummer and her farce, she would lure him to dance with her. Play his own words back to him in a delicious song.

Chin trembling, mouth pinched, Gezarhi forced a choke up her throat.

"A girl must be more careful. What have you been taught? Have you forgotten?" He tsked, cloak fluttering into the the light momentarily. Gezarhi rotated her shoulders, her fingers slithering around the rope, all the while persevering the discomfort she projected onto her features. His head crooked from the dark corner, teasing her. "A man thinks this No One needs more training. Izembaro would be disappointed." He crept along the wall, facing her. The sunlight that shone through the cell window flashed against his leather armor. He leaned with his back against the stone wall, smirk just visible in the shade.

"Have you forgotten?" He stepped forward into the light.

"I forget nothing."

Her hands slipped from their arrest and she landed softly to the ground, careful not to betray any emotion. The skin of her back crackled and burned, the grooves of her ripped flesh twisting down her back like wildfire. The snap of the whip resonated through her memory with menacing definition.

"It is you who forgets. It is you who missteps. This is my assignment. It was given to me. Not you." She spoke with a conserved tongue, weary of the anger bubbling in her throat. "A girl is here because she planned to be. A girl leapt from a roof because she planned her steps, guards' whips, and descent. Not because she forgot. A girl remembers just as she remembers Jaqen h'Ghar at Harrenhal." Her lips curled around her words like fingers around a blade. They are her weapon to wield. "What is it a man wants? This No One is busy."

He grined just as she knew he would. He stands taller than her by two feet, frame built agile and elegant like hers, yet she meets his eyes with ease, her neck tilted up ever so slightly. She knows him well. "A girl should not remember," he whisperd, eyes narrowing.

"A girl chooses to," stubbornly jutting out her chin. Unbinding her ankles, Gezarhi takes a private second to wince at the pain tearing into her back before straightening. "She likes to remember." She wondered if he knows her secret, her predicament.

_One claim is all we can justify. No more. No less._

"A man owes a girl a favor," she says. "She is in need of that favor now."

"Name what you wish, lovely girl." She leaned into his ear, whispering the carefullest of instructions. The sun passed through the windows and receded lower in the sky when her voice falls quiet. He nods once and asks no questions. He knows her well.

Without a backwards glance, Gezarhi stole from the cell- from the prison into the streets of Sunspear, but this time is different. This time she walks the streets a different day, on the side of a different gate-the second gate. She need only slip past one more to reach the Old Palace. There she will find the precious Spear Towers, and inside something even more precious still.

_One claim. No more. No less._


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Light spilled from the Cattery, laughter and bawdy shouts resonating through the dark canal on Ragman's Harbor. Whores could be heard whistling from their evening perches, hanging out their windows, luring wandering foreigners from below, tempting them to part with their precious gold pieces for a night of undeniable pleasures. Stray cats cried desperately for some spare food by the brothel's back door, their tails swishing in and out of the shadows.

Slipping the token around her neck back into the folds of her robe, the girl shoved herself off the alley wall and made her way down the dark canal into the dregs of Drowned Town. The lanterns came nearer as she sauntered down the walk, their reflections winking in the dark water only to be disrupted by the girl's shadow as she crept beside the water's edge. Her bare feet made not a sound against the stone pathways as she tracked her process through backbends, leaping over fences and barrels, darting across bridges and planks that loomed above the waterway. The slender sword at her belt brushed the pant leg of her silk trousers and the girl was reminded of someone who used to carry such a sword. Brushing the thought away, she shook her head, strands of hair tickling her cheeks, flickering against her jawline.

She did not have the luxury of remembrance, not in the service of Him of Many Faces. A dead girl could not remember what it felt like to live, neither could a faceless one. She must forget everything if she wanted to serve.

Slinking across a depleted dock, the girl stopped, sniffing the air, her nose upturned to the breeze. Drowned Town was a scarce corner of Braavos. Its buildings had sunken into the lagoon the city was built upon, fractured from the rest of the city. Being detached meant being ignored. Being ignored meant being free to do as one pleased. Half consumed by the water, half consumed by swaggering bravos, Drowned Town spawned the center for night vivacity among eccentric scum of all varieties. They dwelled in filthy cellars, drinking, whoring, betting on eel fights. But Drowned Town contained a much choicer location for capable swordsmen.

Notorious for duels among audacious bravos, Moon Pool awakened only at night, lanterns splaying brilliant colors along brothels and taverns, exposing crowds of young Braavosi eager to prove their prowess with a blade.

The girl crept through the forest of disremembered docks with vigilance and followed the light that mirrored itself in the water. Guided by the lanterns, she soon found herself on the fringes of Moon Pool. The area was large, surrounded by lesser establishments on all sides, all roads intersecting at the center of Moon Pool's main event. Capable of withholding many duels at once, each individual fight had the possibility of attracting respectable crowds.

The girl came to crouch atop a roof where she surveyed the water dancers at their craft. She rubbed the head of a scrawny black cat as it twisted itself around her ankles.

The duels were held in circles hallowed out by the clearing of the crowd. Observers weren't allowed to interfere with the match, but their voices didn't heed the rule and the harsh hissing and barking of insults were quite audible from her perch.

She remembered a man._ Syrio_.

Memory ruptured a crack in her facade.

They were inevitable, these fractures of composition, moments where she let the _other girl_ slip inside her unwillingly. Glimpses from her past life would bleed through the fabric she'd so meticulously woven, and remembrance became a dull ache beneath her ribs where her heart rotted under her skin. The pain dwelled there constantly like an old wound being struck and reopened. The nameless girl's curiosity overpowered her and the need to feel the dead girl's memories… the desire to taste the flavors of her past was incendiary. The nameless girl sucked in a shaky breath and her bones shifted in anticipation when she finally allowed herself a moment to flesh out the dead girl's conscience.

A man who taught her to dance with a sword. He had been from Braavos, told her so long ago during one of their lessons. The First-Sword of Braavos. _Is he here now?_ She wondered, briefly hoped.

_Shut up, stupid_, she chided herself. _He's dead and gone and so are you._

Standing, the girl ducked from the roof, swinging nimbly to the ground from a broken stairwell. Rolling to her feet, she slipped into the swelling crowd, hidden amidst the flashy silk robes and dyed beards. Inhaling the thick perfumes, the girl shifted her way between men of all shapes, their cloying scents clinging to her attire.

The girl watched the dancers and their thin blades slashing with fascination.

A hand pressed against the scruff of her neck, fisting her robes and yanking her back. She did not fight her aggressor, the Kindly Man had told her it would not be wise. He had told her Izembaro would seek her out in the crowd, that she was not to search for him herself.

She could not see his face, the man she was to meet, only the shadow he cast behind her. She felt the warmth of his body and could taste the lagoon's stench on his robes.

"Tell me, child. At what hour does the _Swift Sailor_ arrive at the docks next moon?" He spoke to her in the Common Tongue, voice low in her ear. His mustachio ticked her cheek.

"A quarter past sun down, depending on the tides." The Kindly Man had told her she would be asked questions, and that she would provide the correct answers so he would know it was truly her.

"Saquer the Wailing lost a bet this morning. To whom?"

"Yareh of Stone Arch. Eight of Saquer's champion eels were his prize." The girl could feel his lips tilting against her cheek. The back of her neck stung unpleasantly from the man's grip, still he did not relent.

"Clever girl," the hand tightened on her robe, his breath on her neck. "What's this one's name?"

She steeled herself.

"I am no one."

"Hmm. Does this clever one speak true?" She gritted her teeth, toes digging into the dirt. The crowd cheered around them, lanterns splaying the men around her bright red. "Very well, child. But I have just one more to ask," the stranger grasped her shoulder, fingers biting into the soft skin beneath her robe. He shifted silently through the bodies, marshy lagoon air sticky and hot. Sweat clung to her brow, pasting the thin cloth to her skin. The crowd wavered for them as they came to the edge of the circle. The fighting pit fleshed out before them like a wound, the break in the audience like a gash. The girl's eyes widened in wonder. She'd never seen the pits up close and felt exhilaration pump through her guts. She could smell the sweat and hear the rough grunts and breaths passing between the fighters.

The bravos danced quick and fierce, blades colliding gracefully in the center of the clearing.

The taller of the two swordsmen fared better than his opponent, who bleed furiously from his side, bright blood staining his orange vest. Dirt clouded underneath their fast moving feet. The taller man slashed his sword quick and certain through the air, at first a seemly useless move, but then the girl realized the weeping cut along the other man's neck, hot blood draining from the red smile, pouring onto his flurry collar and frivolous vest. Red ran thick in the sand as he collapsed forward. The man's life's blood poured from his body like a punctured fruit weeping its juice. The scent of death focused the girl's senses acutely, and she felt the stranger's calloused hand on her neck even more pronouncedly.

The lanterns above shifted in the breeze on their lines and various colors bespattered the night sky and crowd below. The onlookers shouted in many tongues for the next fight, fists pumping brazenly at the victorious bravo to choose his contestant. Coin pouches rustled with the bets. The other man's body was dragged away from the scene, although the pit was stained with his remains.

"Tell me child. How must you serve Him of Many Faces?" Izembaro inquired softly.

"By giving the gift."

"Aye, this is true, little girl." He release the fabric of her robe. "So, you must give it now. Remember, child: _valar dohaeris_."

The girl fingered for the hilt of her blade as Izembaro's rough shove sent her stumbling into the open sand pit. The crowd bustled and she felt eyes searching every inch that she consisted of. The bravo turned- eyed her as a cat eyes a canal rat and stroked his mustachio, pursing his lips as the crowd shouted and laughter swelled through the masses. The nameless girl slipped her toes into the sand and balanced herself amongst the uneven surface, hissing at the man facing her with a smirk stripped of any humor. The girl let the _other one_'s memories of water dancing penetrate her mind. Stealing into the dead girl was a familiar sensation, and she wore her like a second skin._ But she was the first skin, and you're just a pretender. You're not like them. You used to be someone,_ a provoking voice uttered somewhere inside her head.

_No, you're no one. You are only here to serve Him and now you must give the gift._

**A/N: don't look at me like that, I know I suck**


End file.
